


Inevitable Orbits

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Star Trek: Into Darkness Spoilers, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year into their five-year mission, Spock loses Jim for the second time and struggles with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable Orbits

**Author's Note:**

> If you can't see the plot twist coming from a mile away, I'm doing it wrong.

Officially, James T. Kirk dies at 0757 on Stardate 2260.37.

Unofficially, it is the worst moment of Spock’s life.

“Commander!” Chekov cries, an instant before the red warning light flashes up on his console. “Picking up self-destruct signal from unidentified ship!”

Spock’s fingers tighten on the arm of the captain’s chair. “The vessel is occupied?”

“Negatiwe, sir,” Chekov answers. His hands fly over the console, a blur of motion. “Scans show ze only life sign is ze keptin’s.”

“The command came from the ship’s computer,” Uhura says from her station behind his right shoulder. Her voice is calm and collected, and Spock allows himself a fleeting, illogical moment of pride in how much she has grown into her officer role.

“It must have been set to activate upon sensing an intruder. Two minutes to self-destruct,” she finishes.

Spock nods. The tactic is logical: if, as preliminary scans suggest, the tiny ship floating through space before them does indeed belong to smugglers, then it is only rational that her owners would have a plan in place to destroy all potentially incriminating evidence if she were to be compromised during their absence.

It is a shame, though, that they will be unable to ascertain the contents of the cargo hold. A review of applicable Starfleet records indicated the smugglers dealt in rare antiquities. Likely that was the reason why the captain had insisted on beaming onto the ship himself—brazen exterior notwithstanding, Jim has a surprising reverence for cultural artifacts, which Spock only recently discovered in a conversation during one of their chess games.

Well, little matter. Given the nature of their five-year mission, Spock expects they will have numerous opportunities for cultural exchange in the future.

He comms the transporter room. “Mr. Scott, beam the captain back aboard the _Enterprise._ ”

“Aye, sir.”

“One minute to self-destruct,” Uhura says.

Spock nods. “Lieutenant Sulu, please maneuver us to minimum safe distance.”

“Yes, sir.”

A familiar lightening sensation sets in as Sulu brings the _Enterprise_ out of hover and begins turning her away from the smugglers’ ship. The spacecraft floats slowly across the viewscreen, her bulky body silhouetted sharp against the bright light of the twin stars in the distance. Technically, Spock knows, she is fully half the size of the _Enterprise_ herself, but from this angle, she looks interminably small.

“Thirty seconds to self-destruct,” Uhura says.

An itch forms at the back of Spock’s mind. Something is wrong. Why has he not received confirmation that the captain is back on board? It is standard protocol.

He comms the transporter room again. “Mr. Scott, where is the captain?”

No reply. Spock frowns. “Mr. Scott, come in.”

A burst of static like shattering glass, before Scott’s voice comes through, high-pitched and breathless with panic. “I can’t lock on to his signal!” he cries, “The ship activated some sort of jamming frequency at the same time as the self-destruct command!”

The world slams sideways. For an instant Spock thinks they have inexplicably been attacked before he recognizes the sensation as the Vulcan equivalent of his heart leaping into his throat. The bridge falls silent. Something dark, sinister and freezing cold slithers through Spock’s veins.

“Twenty seconds to self-destruct,” Uhura whispers. She sounds strangled.

Twenty seconds. Spock swallows. James Kirk has worked greater miracles in less time—using previous data—it is only logical—

“Scanning ze ship,” Chekov says, and Spock thinks he nods but is not quite sure.

“Display on screen,” he says. His voice echoes muted in his own head, like he is speaking underwater.

“I’m sending out a jamming signal of our own,” Uhura reports, “Maybe if we can disable their computer—oh god,  ten seconds…”

A digital readout of the smugglers’ ship spills across the viewscreen. Sulu curses in a language Spock does not recognize. A single yellow dot pulses on the readout, located in the ship’s cargo bay.

The captain.

“Mr. Scott,” Spock breathes.

“F-Five seconds…”

“I’m trying, I’m _trying_ but everything’s _scrambled_ —”

“ _Keptin—_ ”

The countdown finishes with an automated beep. For the remainder of his life, Spock will never forget the sound: two digitized notes, one high and one low. It is not unlike the noise emitted by the handheld gaming devices he often sees Terran children playing with on Earth: a signal of finality, of end.

_Game over._

Before them in the vast vacuum of space, the ship breaks apart. It is remarkably anticlimactic: no sound, no explosions as there is no oxygen to feed fire. Just a sudden disassembly into multiple jagged parts, as one of Mother’s clay figurines had once done when Spock accidentally knocked it off a table as a child.

On the viewscreen, the yellow dot— _Jim_ —winks out of existence.

And everything stops.

 

ONE HOUR EARLIER

 

“So,” Jim said around a mouthful of pancake, and Spock sighed inwardly and resisted the urge to reprimand him like a child. “This new species, the Nabisco—”

“Nabe’esc.”

“Right, that’s what I said.” Jim waved his fork around as he spoke, and Spock resigned himself to discreetly dodging flying pieces of grain-based human morning repast. As long as none of it got in his tea. “They’re willing to let the Federation establish a dilithium mine on their planet in exchange for fifty pounds of _soybeans?_ ”

“Apparently it is considered a rare delicacy in their culture, yet the atmosphere of Nabe and the chemical composition of the soil renders it exceedingly difficult to maintain crops of significant yield.”

“Yeah, but…” Jim chewed for a moment, then swallowed and shook his head with a smile. “Just. Soybeans.”

Spock tilted his head. “Your tone of voice indicates a level of disbelief I do not deem proportional to the topic of conversation.”

“Yeah, you would.” Jim cut himself another portion of the pancake. “So after the Naboo—”

“Nabe’esc.” Honestly, Jim knew perfectly well how to pronounce the name of the species. He had, after all, led the debriefing regarding Nabe yesterday morning, and thus there was no logical reason why he would insist on this pretense. Spock suspected Jim was simply, as he often put it, “messing with him”.

“Right. After they get their tentacles on the bags in our cargo hold, we just, what, start drilling away?”

“I assume by ‘we’ you mean the crew of this ship, in which case such a statement is inaccurate. The _Enterprise_ possesses neither the personnel nor the equipment necessary for successful—”

“I know that, Spock.” Jim chewed thoughtfully. “It’s just…it seems too easy, you know? A couple bags of legumes for the right to establish a base on their planet indefinitely, extracting a radioactive and highly volatile element from the mantle. And what happens when they run out? Do we become their personal organic delivery service?”

Spock blinked. “You find the terms of our agreement with the Nabe’esc suspicious.”

“Well, yeah. You don’t trade in your brand new car for somebody’s old tricycle.”

“A valid assessment.”

“Yeah, but—wait. You agreed with me. Did you just _agree_ with me?”

“Yes. While the purely diplomatic approach would encompass accepting the terms of our agreement with the Nabe’esc as they stand, a more thorough examination of their motivations for setting such terms would be both logical and potentially illuminating, given the evidence you have just advanced.” Spock took a sip of his tea, savoring the warmth of the liquid as it seeped down his throat. “I shall review the official records detailing the Nabe’esc’s previous interactions with the Federation, generate hypotheses, and deliver my report to you by the end of our shift today.”

Jim groaned, and Spock got the feeling the only thing keeping his captain from plunking his head down on the table was the fact that seeing their CO succumb to such despair in the middle of the mess hall would be bad for crew morale. “Don’t bother,” he said. “With everyone looking into those Klingon transmissions, I’m up to my ears in goddamned reports.”

Spock decided not to correct the captain on the physical improbability of his statement. Instead, he said, “There has been no progress on the investigation?”

The unauthorized transmissions—six so far, all composed and sent during shift change when computer activity was most difficult to trace, and all directed in the rather ominous direction of Klingon space—had begun several weeks prior. As such matters were not the concern of a science officer, Spock had seen no need to stay updated on the status of the investigation. In fact, he was surprised it was still ongoing—he had assumed Uhura and her team, who had been working on the issue around the clock, had already found the culprit.

Across the table, Jim sighed. “If by progress you mean identifying the asshole who’s been hijacking my ship to videochat with Klingons, then no.”

Spock frowned. This was highly concerning. They had had to change course twice in the last two weeks in order to avoid armadas of Klingon ships that had suddenly and inexplicably turned up in sectors of space they were heading for. Although the content of the transmissions had not been ascertained, it was likely these events were not merely coincidental.

“I shall lend my assistance to Nyota and her team,” he said, but Jim shook his head.

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “We’re taking measures. Don’t worry about it.”

“Vulcans do not worry.”

“All the same.”

“Captain, we must direct all our resources into solving this problem, as the transmissions have endangered the ship numerous times.”

“I know. And we are.”

“I fail to see the—”

“Spock.” Jim reached across the table to rest a hand on Spock’s arm, warm and reassuring. When he smiled, his blue eyes glittered, and Spock felt something pleasant and strangely warm curl low in his stomach. He made a note to double-check the replicator settings; it appeared the device had introduced some unknown substance into his beverage. “Just trust me, okay?”

Jim’s expression was open and his gaze firm, a look Spock recognized with a jolt that he was used to receiving, on the bridge or during negotiations on an alien planet, or in the captain’s quarters over a game of chess. _I know what I’m doing,_ the look said. _You just need to have a little faith._

Vulcans held no conviction in faith; it was too abstract and unpredictable a concept. But Spock was only half-Vulcan, and it was not that half that made him nod and answer, “Of course, Jim.”

Jim’s face broke into a broad grin—he was always inordinately pleased whenever Spock used his first name rather than his title—and warmth rushed through Spock at the sight. Though this was not the first time he had had such a reaction, it was still surprising. Spock supposed it was because Jim’s features when he smiled were quite aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps he could allow himself some admiration of it as he would a fine work of art.

“Great,” Jim said then, collecting his plate and rising from his seat. “Shift starts in ten minutes. You coming?”

“I would prefer to finish my tea first.”

“Okay. See you in a few.”

As the door slid shut behind his captain, Spock looked down at his tea and considered their conversation. This was not the first time Jim had ended an exchange by appealing to Spock’s more emotional side, and the physical touches certainly did not help matters. Jim knew about Vulcan touch-telepathy—Spock _knew_ that he knew, because he had taken the liberty of hacking the captain’s search history one night—yet that never seemed to stop him from laying a hand on Spock’s shoulder, or touching his arm, or slapping him on the back after a mission gone well. And every time, Spock invariably felt that surge of warmth, little sparks crackling down his spine and up through all his extremities as if Jim were a live wire.

He allowed no one else such casual contact. Even Nyota had known to keep her distance except for more trying times (such as when his planet evaporated), and now that they had terminated their relationship, he could not remember the last time she had touched him. The other crewmembers likewise respected his space, such that Spock did not think he had experienced physical contact with anyone except Jim—and Doctor McCoy, when medical procedures necessitated it—since they had started their exploration of deep space several months prior.

Usually, he would have preferred it this way. Vulcans held distance in high esteem, and the amount of physical touch Jim initiated bordered on rude. Yet Spock found, with some surprise, that he did not find his captain’s behavior unwelcome. In fact, had Spock wanted Jim to desist, he would have informed the captain a long time ago, and he was certain Jim would have respected his wish.

Spock had never brought it up. And he did not quite understand what that meant.

His communicator beeped. “Commander,” came Chekov’s voice, “You are needed on ze bridge. We hawe intercepted an unidentified ship.”

Grateful for the distraction, Spock finished his tea and headed out of the mess hall.

 

NOW

 

He feels nothing.

This is a first.

The walls of the _Enterprise_ gleam as he walks, polished silver seeming to wink at him as if she holds a secret he is not privy to. Spock has no care for secrets. He has no care for anything.

His steps direct him toward sickbay. Logically, he knows this is not necessary, as Doctor McCoy will undoubtedly have heard the shipwide broadcast made not five minutes ago, Chekov’s young voice trembling around the words, razor-sharp crystals that will cut him open if he misspeaks.

_Ze keptin…is dead._

That should have been enough for McCoy, for everyone on the ship. Yet Spock keeps walking. Jim is—was, after all, one of McCoy’s closest friends, and now that Spock is…acting captain…of the _Enterprise_ , it is his duty to ascertain the emotional impact the captain’s recent death has had on those who served under him most closely. The reasoning is sound.Spock quickens his pace.

He passes a young ensign in the hallway, slouched down against the wall as if her knees can no longer support her. Her head is in her hands, shoulders wracked with deep, trembling sobs. Spock does not remember her name. He walks past her without a word.

In the next hallway, he comes across Yeoman Latik. He knows her name only because she transferred onto the _Enterprise_ two months ago when they docked at Starbase 7. He reviewed her file and approved it, but he cannot recall what she does.

She stiffens and steps to the side as he passes, but calls out after him, “Commander.”

He stops, turns around. Latik bites her lip. “Captain Kirk,” she says. “He was a good man.”

 _No,_ Spock thinks, _He was not._

Because good men do not die and abandon their crews. And they certainly do not do so twice.

He meets no one else before arriving in sickbay. The wing is relatively empty: a nurse takes the temperature of a crewman in one corner, but otherwise the usually bustling area is quiet. At the far end of the room, the door to McCoy’s office is closed, red light on the panel blinking angrily at all who dare approach.

Spock considers leaving. He imagines McCoy is coping with his grief via the bountiful—and illegal—stash of Terran alcohol he keeps in his office, and it appears he wishes to remain undisturbed. Likely anyone who intrudes upon him during this vulnerable time will be subject to considerable violence.

Spock is amenable to that.

The nurse gives him a concerned look as he crosses the room, which Spock ignores as he requests entry. A moment passes; then two. Spock is just on the verge of inputting his override code when the door slides open.

Were he capable of feeling anything right now, Spock thinks he might be surprised at the sight that greets him. He had expected a wild look, bloodshot eyes, accusations flying like poisoned darts—but instead McCoy looks sober, and Spock can smell no traces of alcohol on his person. His uniform is neat, and his eyes are clear as he regards Spock for a moment. “Yeah? What do you want?” He looks, for all intents and purposes, as if Spock has merely interrupted him in the middle of reviewing personnel files.

An odd situation, but Spock dismisses it. He has a duty he must perform. Right now, his duties are the only thing keeping something dark and terrible from devouring his insides. “I believe it is Terran custom to offer support during times of emotional need,” he says. The words sound recited even to his ears, but he brushes the sentiment aside. He is only acting as he should.

McCoy narrows his eyes at him. “What?”

Ah, so that’s what it is. The doctor is likely in shock, still digesting the news. “The captain was your friend,” Spock says. “Therefore, I have come to provide support of the emotional variety during this undoubtedly trying time.”

“Oh.” McCoy casts his eyes down before lifting his gaze back up to Spock. “Uh. Okay.”

“May I enter?”

“No!” The sharpness of the answer seems to surprise McCoy himself, because his eyes go wide for an instant even as he moves to block the doorway with his body. “I mean, no, Spock. I’d rather you didn’t.”

Perhaps McCoy has in fact begun to imbibe alcohol. It is only logical he would want to hide it.

“Very well,” he says, and turns away. It is obvious McCoy wishes to continue engaging in his coping mechanisms alone, and Spock sees no benefit in prolonging the duration they spend in each other’s presence.

“Wait.” The sudden grip on his wrist startles him. He halts and looks up to see McCoy regarding him with worried eyes. “Are you…okay?” the doctor asks.

There is real concern in his voice, something Spock does not think he has ever experienced. Even when he got injured on away missions and had to spend time in sickbay, McCoy always grumbled and snapped at him, as if his very presence was a strain on his patience. Considering McCoy’s knowledge of Spock’s history with Jim, he supposes such rancor is duly deserved. Right now, however, McCoy watches him with eyes gone soft with compassion. The expression does not quite seem to fit his face.

McCoy licks his lips. “I mean, you weren’t doing so hot the last time Jim bit it…” He glances further into his office, at something Spock cannot see from his current vantage point, before turning back to him. “So you know, if you need anything…” The doctor trails off, uncertain.

Spock thinks he should be grateful. McCoy is reaching out, attempting to bridge the distance between them through the tragedy that has just befallen them both: a most appropriate and logical maneuver given the situation. He thinks he should nod. He thinks he should smile.

He does neither, and instead smoothly disengages McCoy’s grip on his arm. “Thank you, Doctor,” he answers. “I am quite well.”

It is a lie, and Spock thinks he should feel guilty because he has informed the other crewmembers numerous times in the past that _Vulcans cannot lie_. But he does not feel guilty. He does not feel anything as he turns and exits sickbay, ignoring the incredulous look McCoy aims at his back.

The first time Jim Kirk died, trapped behind two inches of glass with fear and sorrow in his eyes, Spock _felt_. He grieved and he hurt and he screamed his rage to the stars.

As he turns from McCoy and heads out of sickbay, Spock thinks that perhaps Jim’s first death exhausted all his emotions, sucking them from him like a sponge. Now, the second time, he is only a remnant, a shell.

Spock feels nothing because there is nothing left.

 

ELEVEN HOURS EARLIER

 

“What would you do if I died, Spock? Again, I mean.”

A pause. “I fail to see how your question is relevant to our current circumstances.”

“It’s just a question.”

Spock considered the board: three moves and he would have Jim in check, if the captain continued with the strategy he was currently using. Across from him, Jim tilted his head. “Well?”

“An accurate prediction of my reaction would be impossible, given that the situation, should it occur, would introduce numerous uncontrollable variables that would inevitably influence the outcome.”

Jim hummed and moved his bishop. “That’s not an answer.”

Spock agreed, but he felt there were some aspects of this the captain did not understand. Choosing not to feel was not the same as _not_ feeling. He collected his thoughts and tried not to think of blaring alarms and red alerts, a miraculously functioning core and dead eyes behind a curtain of glass.

Jim must have sensed something of his thoughts, because he shifted, uncomfortable. “Never mind. Forget I said anythi—”

“I would prefer,” Spock said, and thought he was mostly successful at keeping the tremor out of his voice, “that I not be placed in a position where such a prediction will be necessary, Jim.”

Jim stared at him for a moment. Then he smiled, a little sadly. “Right. Me too.”

He then proceeded to move his knight, thus upending the strategy he had been following for the last six moves. Spock suppressed a sigh of frustration and began recalibrating his approach.

 

NOW

 

Spock stares down at the padd in his hands. _Incident Report,_ it reads at the top, and the next line: _Parties involved: Kirk, James T., Captain, USS Enterprise._

Underneath, the cursor blinks, awaiting further input. It has been in the same position for the last 2.6 hours.

Spock has written exactly one hundred and eighteen forms just like this. He keeps track, just as he knows Jim does— _did_ —each time he placed the captain’s seal on the documents before forwarding them to Command. And it is not that Spock did not _feel_ , did not mourn for each name as he typed them into the blank spaces, forced them into place like keys not quite made for a misshapen lock. He mourned all of them, remembers each face like a brand seared on the inside of his skull.

But it has never been _Jim’s_ name on the form. _Jim_ has never been the one dead, vanished— _gone_ , slipped from Spock’s life like so much smoke in the wind. And Spock, for the first time in his life, is so afraid he feels it clutching at his very bones like icy fingers. Because if he does this, if he puts Jim’s name down and types the impassive text and signs it and sends it to Starfleet, it will be _real._

No miraculous lifeblood from a genetically altered superhuman. No sudden heartbeat on a clinical monitor screen, no soft intake of breath, no flutter of eyes beneath closed lids, just waiting to open.

No more catching each other’s gazes during long shifts on the bridge, gravitating toward each other like two spiraling, orbiting stars. No more smiles out the corner of Jim’s mouth, slightly crooked and accompanied by a knowing glint in his eyes, as if Jim thinks they share some sort of private joke. No more easy chess games in the evenings, seated across from each other in the privacy of the captain’s quarters, whole conversations had without a single word.

No more laughter, no more jokes, no more _Come on, Spock, you gotta live a little_ s. No more casual touches, no more not-so-casual touches, brushes of fingers and hands that left his skin tingling with something so much more dangerous than longing. No more _Hey Spock,_ and _Spock!_ and _Jesus, Spock_ and _Spock_ and _SPOCK—_

The sudden chime at his door startles Spock so badly he drops the padd. The clatter of metal on metal sounds out like two crashing cymbals and he winces, scrambling for the device while answering, “Come!”

The door slides open, warm light from the hallway flooding in like a tide up a dry beach. Yeoman Latik stands at the threshold. “Sir?”

Spock straightens his uniform as surreptitiously as possible, trying to slow the hammering of his heart in his side. “Yes. Please, come in.”

She obeys, stepping slowly, almost gingerly into the room. Her gaze flicks about his quarters, and she comes to a stop just in front of his desk, rocking a little back and forth on her heels, a tell-tale Terran sign of nervousness. Spock does not blame her. Everyone on the _Enterprise_ is intimidated by him to some extent.

Everyone, that is, except Jim.

After a moment, Latik glances at him, then quickly slides her gaze to the ground. “Sir, I…I came to see if I could be of any help. You know, with the…the captain’s…passing.”

She mumbles her words in the direction of her feet, and Spock spares a brief flash of sympathy. Jim was loved by all of his crew, and they must now all be mourning him in their own ways. Logically, Spock knows he should be doing his best to help them, should be out there talking with those people, providing what support he can. But every hallway echoes with Jim’s footsteps, every room suffused with wisps of his words and easy laughter. Jim haunts every inch of the _Enterprise_ , and Spock does not believe in ghosts but it doesn’t matter. He still fears this one.

The yeoman shifts her feet, gaze darting up at him for half a second before sliding back down. Spock realizes he has yet to answer her, and so he quickly says, “Thank you, Yeoman. But your assistance is not required at this time.”

“Oh…okay.” Latik bites her lip, then notices the padd in Spock’s hands. “Oh, is that…I mean, are you writing Kirk’s…?”

Spock nods, slowly. “It is…proving more difficult than I anticipated.”

“I can do it for you,” Latik says, stepping forward. “I mean, if you want? I know all the proper wording, and it might be…easier. You know, if I did it.”

The last part of her sentence lilts upward in a question. Spock experiences a strange sensation like a lightening in his chest, and he realizes with some surprise that it is relief. The pain and grief have been so fierce, he has forgotten how to feel differently.

Perhaps it is that realization that leads him to nod, sliding the padd into Latik’s slim fingers. “That would be…appreciated. Thank you, Yeoman.”

“Of course, sir.” Latik nods, then half-turns to leave, then seems to remember something and turns back, snaps a stiff salute, then half-turns again and takes a step toward the door, then stops again. The jerky movements remind Spock rather of an antique marionette, and though he does not smile, the lightening feeling returns.

Then Latik speaks again, and the feeling disappears. “You know,” the yeoman murmurs, not looking at him, “I really am sorry. For your loss.”

Spock swallows, and hopes she cannot see it in the dim light. “The captain’s loss is not merely mine, but that of the entire crew.”

But Latik shakes her head, biting her lip again. “No, it’s…” She shifts the padd from one hand to the other anxiously. “I mean, I’ve never been married, or in a really serious relationship or anything, but…I can only imagine…it must be really hard for you.”

Spock tilts his head, even as something cold and painful begins to form in his gut. “Please clarify.”

“Well…” Latik looks at the ground again. “I mean, you and the captain were together, right? And now…I guess it’s almost like losing your other half. And I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.”

And just like that, the cold explodes inside him. He feels torn open, a gaping wound where his soul should be, as everything suddenly, terribly, snaps into place.

_Your other half._

Latik must see something on his face because she stiffens, stepping forward. “Sir, are you all r—”

“Yes.” It’s forced through clenched teeth, and Spock can’t have her here right now, can’t—he feels the prickling in his eyes, familiar and terrifying and everything is spinning— “Th-Thank you, Yeoman, that will be all.”

He does not catch her response; only knows that, a second later, the door slides open and shut, and he is finally alone. _Truly_ alone, for the first time since…since he can’t even remember. Since the instant Jim rushed onto the bridge, shouting something about a lightning storm in space. Or even before that, when Spock had looked across a sea of eager, young faces in a hall at the Academy and met defiant blue eyes, eyes that sparked like the brightest of suns, and it had only been for an instant, a heartbeat even before he forced it down with brutal Vulcan logic, but Spock had thought, briefly, fleetingly, _Maybe._

And now…now, there is no maybe. Because Jim Kirk is dead, and Spock is completely, immutably alone.

The first time Jim died, Spock cried for his captain.

This time, he cries for his mate.

 

ONE YEAR EARLIER

 

“Just a little more…there.”

Jim twisted the pliers one final time, and something inside the tricorder snapped into place with a soft _click_. The little device beeped and a handful of nonsensical readings fluttered across its tiny screen before going dark.

Spock furrowed his brow. “Cap—Jim, it appears you have rendered the machine inoperable.”

“Nope, it works fine,” Jim answered, with a smile perhaps more self-satisfied than the situation warranted as he slid the pliers back into Spock’s waiting palm.

Spock tilted his head. “I still do not understand your motivations for this…project. Or why you insisted I bring you this tool, as well as commit a criminal act against Dr. McCoy.”

His captain laughed at that, easy and free. It shook the hospital bed, and Spock automatically reached out a hand to steady it.

“First of all, I asked you to sneak Bones’s tricorder out of his pocket, not murder him. And second of all…” He grinned, blue eyes bright and mischievous, a look Spock never ceased to witness without a vague sense of foreboding. “It’s totally gonna be worth it. Grumpy bastard’s been scanning me every chance he gets, like he’s just _waiting_ for me to suddenly go batshit and start shoving people in torpedoes and crashing starships into the SF bay, which, _no_. So if you ask me, he deserves this.”

“I…see. This, then, would be what humans call a ‘prank’?”

Jim grinned. “Yes, Mr. Spock. See, even when I’m sacked out in the hospital recovering from death, I can still teach you a few things.”

“Indeed.” Somehow, Spock did not feel it prudent to mention how Jim had been teaching him things practically from the day they’d met.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Past the sliding glass windows, bright sunlight poured over San Francisco, the whole city seeming to buzz with afternoon activity. In the distance, Spock could see the jagged remnants of the buildings destroyed when Khan had brought the _USS Vengeance_ screaming down from the sky like a wrathful god. The smoke had mostly cleared, and the area now swarmed with repair crews. The city—and Starfleet—would rebuild.

Jim’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. “You know,” he said, leaning back against the pillows as he slowly turned the tricorder over in his hand, “When you first brought me up for cheating back at the Academy, I never would have imagined we’d end up here.” His voice was thoughtful.

“Indeed, it is difficult to see the connection between allegations of academic dishonesty and the events of the past few weeks.”

“No, that’s not it.” Jim coughed a bit, and Spock surreptitiously checked the readings on the monitor over his head. “I meant I never expected us to end up _here_. Like this. With you as my First Officer, keeping me company in the hospital while we scheme against Bones together.”

Spock certainly did not consider his role in Jim’s plan to be anything close to scheming, but chose not to say it. Instead, he said, “You refer to the change in our…relationship.”

“Yeah.” Jim smiled, a little lopsided. “I mean, who would’ve thought, right? The prim, proper Vulcan and the dumb hick. Hell, half the time I wake up in the morning and can’t figure out how you put up with me.”

His tone was light, but Spock sensed something underneath it—something he couldn’t quite identify. He tilted his head. “You should not speak of yourself in such a disparaging manner.”

“What?” Jim chuckled softly. “No, I wasn’t—”

“Especially when it is not at all true.”

That got him a surprised blink, and Spock allowed himself a brief sense of satisfaction. He straightened in his seat and continued, “A ‘hick’, as I understand it, is someone largely unsophisticated and often unintelligent. Neither of these terms describes you in the least. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you are one of the most innovative and adaptable people I have had the privilege of knowing, especially when one considers the unconventional yet highly effective manner in which you approach your captaincy.

“Furthermore, you seem to be under the impression that it is difficult to, as you say, ‘put up with you.’ Again, I find this claim inaccurate. I admit your conduct is sometimes unorthodox, especially when in the company of an attractive female. However, I have generally found our interactions over the past year to be quite pleasant. Indeed, I would say that your recent willingness to sacrifice your life to save the ship, though something I highly disapprove of, has demonstrated to me the extent of your loyalty and strength of character. It has made me…respect you, and value our friendship all the more for it.”

He stopped speaking. Silence filled the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring Jim’s vitals. Jim himself just stared at Spock, blue eyes wide and bright as if, illogically, seeing him for the first time.

Spock let him look. He meant every word he’d said. Jim had rescued Spock from the volcano on Nibiru because he valued their friendship. Spock could not fathom why the captain would assume the sentiment unreturned.

A few more moments passed. Then, finally, Jim sighed, a slow, soft exhalation of breath. His shoulders relaxed, and when he smiled, it reached his eyes. “Here I was going for a little light banter, and you go and write me a goddamned love letter.”

Spock felt certain his eyebrows reached his hairline. “A love…?”

But Jim just waved his hand. “Whatever. And don’t think I missed what you said about _highly disapproving_ of my decision to enter the radioactive chamber. You would’ve done it too, had you been in my place.”

Spock stiffened. _At great cost,_ his elder counterpart had said. “Captain—”

“I meant it, you know.” Jim slid his gaze briefly out past the window to the brightness of the water in the bay. His eyes, Spock realized suddenly, nonsensically, almost exactly matched the color of the water. “When I said I didn’t know what I was doing. When I said you were the one who belonged in the chair, not me. But then…”

He sighed. “But then _you_ would’ve been the one behind that glass. Captain goes down with the ship, right?”

“Sir, you are aware that being the captain does not equate to you somehow being expected to sacrifice your life for the crew.”

“No, you’re right,” Jim agreed, softly. His eyes grew distant, and he suddenly seemed much older than he was. “But being captain does mean having to make the hard decisions. It means being presented with options that you know will end up hurting people, and then gritting your teeth and picking them anyway.”

He turned back to Spock then, and illogical as it was, Spock thought he could feel the physical burn of Jim’s gaze, bright blue irises searing brands into his skin. “If you ask me, it’s not all that different.”

Spock looked away. Jim spoke truth, his arguments regarding the role of the captaincy in perfect line with regulation, yet Spock found with a sudden jolt of surprise that he didn’t _like_ it. He didn’t like that Jim was the one who had to make the difficult decisions, didn’t like that Jim had to bear responsibility over the lives of everyone on the _Enterprise_ , including his own.

He didn’t like that Jim had drawn his last, terrified breath on the other side of that glass, had brought Spock’s whole fragile world crumbling down like San Francisco’s skyline, because he’d felt that was his job.

The silence stretched. Spock felt Jim’s gaze on him, and finally turned to meet it. He opened his mouth to speak—

And was promptly interrupted by McCoy, who strode briskly into the room, fell into an empty chair, and snarled, “Where the fuck is a drink when I need one?”

Jim watched Spock for a moment longer. Then he seemed to shake himself, turning to McCoy as his features softened back into a grin. “Aw, what’s the matter, Bones? Hospital driving you nuts? ‘Cause I know this one guy who’s been cooped up here for weeks and would just _love_ for you to sign his discharge papers—”

“Yeah, and when that guy finally manages to _follow doctor’s orders_ and fucking _rest_ for once, then maybe I’ll consider it. And where the fuck is my tricorder? I haven’t seen it since this morning.”

“Here.” Jim held out the device. “You dropped it on my bed before you left.” Spock had to give him credit; his face held that exact same unassuming expression he only reserved for the most trying of diplomatic assignments.

McCoy took the tricorder, glanced quickly at its screen, apparently saw nothing suspicious, and put it in his pocket. “And how are you feeling, Jim?” he asked, the gruffness of his voice somehow lifting just enough for Spock to detect the note of softness beneath. “Any change?”

“Nah, I’m okay. Spock’s been looking after me.”

“Really.” McCoy sent Spock a doubtful look, and Spock straightened.

“Indeed. And seeing as the captain has neither worsened nor died whilst under my supervision, it seems I have been doing at least a minimally competent job.”

McCoy started to snarl something in response, then stopped, brow furrowing. “That was a joke. Holy shit, Spock, you made a _joke_.”

“You seem to be under the impression that Vulcans do not engage in occasional mannerisms that may be considered amusing. I assure you that, though rare, such mannerisms do exist. For instance, ‘you breathe only through one nostril while taking geological measurements in the valley of Vel’Sor.’”

Both Jim and McCoy stared at him. Spock cleared his throat. “It is…funnier in Vulcan.”

McCoy snorted, clearly entertained, and Jim broke into another bright, open laugh. Spock felt something warm inside him in response. Motley though they were, these people were his friends, and Spock found, with not a little bit of surprise, that he would not have had it any other way.

The conversation soon turned to other topics. Spock participated as much as was necessary, and spent the remainder of the time looking at Jim, marveling at the brightness of his smile, the ease of his laughter, the incessant buzzing of his captain here and well and _alive_. Later, when McCoy tried to scan Jim with the tricorder and promptly emitted a high-pitched squeal not unlike a young Terran female when the device sent an electric jolt up his arm, Spock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as Jim howled with mirth.

As his captain continued to recover over the next few weeks, Spock would occasionally remember what Jim had said, about having to make the hard decisions. But watching Jim slowly ease back into his captaincy, watching him visit other crewmembers and clamber all over Engineering to help with repairs and arrange meeting after meeting to ensure they got their five-year mission, it just didn’t seem that important anymore. Whatever decisions Jim made, Spock would stand by him: not because it was his job, or his duty, or what was expected of him—but because it was what he wanted to do.

 

NOW

 

Uhura finds him on the observation deck.

Spock has always had a particular affinity for this part of the ship. It is not logical; his years in Starfleet have provided him numerous opportunities to view space without the hindrance of a planet’s atmosphere, so he derives no fresh experience from the same perspective aboard a starship. Yet he finds himself time and time again drawn to this area, and watching the intense blackness outside the window peppered with stars like grains of salt strewn across a tablecloth has never failed to engender within him a sense of evenness and tranquility.

Today, however, he looks out at the vastness of space and sees only the gaping emptiness reflected in his own soul. He thinks what happened to his homeworld an apt comparison: Jim’s death has created a black hole in his very being, sucking all that is good and bright down into an abyss of dark and infinite nothing.

The soft touch on his arm burns like a physical thing, and it is only because of the deep respect and affection he still harbors for Uhura that he does not draw away. She must see something in his face, though, because she immediately withdraws the touch.

“I thought I might find you here,” she says, softly.

Spock nods, but says nothing. Jim’s funeral is tomorrow. Spock has distanced himself from the preparations as much as possible, but it does not stop him from wanting to punch a hole in the nearest wall every time he hears someone whispering about it in the hallways.

 _Stop talking about it,_ he wants to scream, wants to grab them by their lapels and shake them until they feel as confused, as broken up as he does. _Your grief is nothing. You have lost your captain, but you have not lost your mate._

“Spock.” Uhura bites her lip, expression concerned. “Are you…okay?”

When Spock just gives her a look, she sighs. “It’s been a week since Kirk died,” she says, “and we’ve barely seen you. You went to see Dr. McCoy that first day and you’ve been locked up in your quarters ever since. You barely eat, I _know_ you haven’t been sleeping, and the only time you show your face is when you’re working your shift and then you disappear right after again.” She tilts her head. “Spock, I’m worried about you.”

Spock doesn’t answer immediately. Uhura is right: he cannot remember the last time he had a meal, and it has been more than four days since he last slept. He has tried to meditate but cannot grasp his focus. He has had more than one bout of dizziness in the past day, but does not know whether that is from the lack of sustenance or simply from his body refusing to function properly in the absence of his mate. He finds he does not care.

“Spock.” Uhura moves closer, just enough to brush his sleeve. “Please talk to me. Even after your mother…it wasn’t this bad.”

Spock swallows and turns back to the black space outside the window. Is Jim out there somewhere? Is his _katra_ curled up somewhere among the stars, waiting for Spock to join him, waiting to welcome him with a warm embrace and those bright, laughing eyes?

“I feel…” The words are hoarse; Spock clears his throat and tries again. “I feel _pain,_ Nyota. So much pain. I thought I knew what it was like to hurt before this, but I see now that I was wrong.”

Uhura nods. Her eyes shine wet in the half-darkness. “I…I’m so sorry, Spock.”

Spock swallows. “My mother was…dear to me,” he whispers, and the agony is like a cancer in his body and he just wants it to _stop_. “I never thought I would feel a greater sorrow than that which came with her passing. But this…this is different, Nyota. I have lost family in the past…but I have never before lost a mate.”

Uhura’s stiffens. “M…Mate?” she repeats. Her voice comes out slightly strangled.

Spock cannot bring himself to reply. He will let Uhura hold on to illogical resentments about their previous relationship if she so wishes. Arguing will do no good, and he is just so _tired_ now.

A moment passes. Spock continues to look out the window. Then, abruptly, Uhura looks away and whispers harshly, illogically, “That bastard. I’ll _kill_ him.”

It surprises Spock enough to turn back to look at her. Uhura’s hands have clenched into shaking fists, and her eyes glint with an angry ferocity he has only ever seen when the _Enterprise_ is in the middle of a firefight. He blinks. “Nyota?”

“That idiot,” she snarls, not seeming to have heard him. “That _asshole._ I can’t _believe_ he talked me into this—”

“Nyota, you are making very little sense.”

She suddenly seems to remember he is there because she looks up, eyes bright. “Spock,” she says then, and there is no longer any grief in her eyes, only fierce protectiveness. “I have to tell you something. Just…listen closely, okay? Kirk—”

The sharp electronic beep cuts her off. Uhura blinks, pulls out her padd, and presses something on it. Her eyes flick over the small screen before she takes a sudden, sharp breath. “Shit. _Shit,_ it’s happening now!”

Spock frowns. “What is—”

“You have to come with me.” She tucks the padd away and turns toward the door, but pauses when Spock does not move. “Spock, come _on!_ ”

He has no choice but to follow, tailing Uhura as she sprints for the nearest turbolift, the two of them dodging various _Enterprise_ personnel on the way. Uhura flips open her communicator as she runs. “Sir, it’s happening. We’ll meet you in Engineering.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before snapping the device closed and ducking into the turbolift, hitting the button for the correct deck. Spock, who barely made it in before the doors swished closed, turns immediately to her. “Lieutenant, explain.”

Uhura taps her booted foot, glaring at the control panel as if by sheer force of will she can compel the lift to go faster. “Okay,” she says, speaking fast, “so you know that investigation I’m heading up? The one about those covert Klingon transmissions?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we were running out of leads, so the captain came up with this plan and—” But just then the turbolift doors open and she doesn’t bother finishing, rushing out and down the hallway. Spock follows her, and is just about to demand she finish her explanation when she stops so abruptly he nearly runs into her from behind, just barely managing to stop himself before the closed door to the maintenance area.

Uhura raises a finger to her lips as she quietly keys open the door. “Shh. They can’t know we’re here, not after all the setup we did.”

Spock blinks, but accordingly lowers his voice to a whisper. “Who?”

“The bastards sending those damned transmissions.” She does not elaborate further, assuming—correctly—that their voices will carry too much in the bulky metal space. Spock follows her down a side stairwell, metal clinking softly beneath their boots, and soon they are in the very bowels of the ship, surrounded on all sides by a myriad of wires and piping.

Uhura squeezes through an opening between two large coolant containers, Spock barely managing to do the same. Up ahead, a soft noise drifts to them, almost indistinguishable from the mechanical hisses and bumps that surround them at first, but then growing gradually louder and more clear as they approach, until finally it resolves into the low murmur of a voice.

It’s female. And speaking Klingon.

Spock pauses and looks at Uhura. She meets his gaze and nods, once. Together they pull out their phasers and creep forward until they can peer around the next beam.

They are in a small corner space beneath one of the deck’s many stairwells. The area is cramped and cluttered with junk, barely able to fit three people. An old terminal at the back sports a single console screen, currently lit with the blurry face of what looks like a Klingon commander.

And bent over the screen, whispering treacherous words, is…

Spock exhales. “Latik.”

The yeoman stiffens at his voice and spins around. Her eyes widen, first in surprise but then in fury. “You…!”

Uhura steps forward, phaser raised, its blue glow reflecting off her sharp features. “I should’ve known,” she hisses. “ _La’tik_ , huh? That’s Klingon for ‘rat’.”

Latik sneers, the expression distorting her features. “And yet it took you this long to catch on to me,” she snarls. “It is no wonder your pathetic Federation will never attain our glorious honor.”

Uhura blinks. “Our…?”

Latik snorts, then reaches up into her tunic to press something attached to her chest. Her image flickers, then _changes_ —and Spock finds himself staring at a tall, dark-clothed Klingon female. He narrows his eyes: a cloaking device, obviously, but how did the Klingons manage to obtain one?

Uhura seems to be thinking the same thing. Keeping her phaser aimed straight at Latik’s heart, she says, “What information have you sent them?”

Latik curls her lip. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Her eyes glint, dangerous. “You humans, always thinking yourselves so smart, so honorable. That idiot captain of yours especially. I couldn’t wait to tell the others of his death.”

The anger boils in Spock, and he steps forward. “You will not refer to him in such a manner.”

His words have little effect, though, because Latik just laughs. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

“The option holds merit.”

Her smile only broadens. “You are welcome to try, _Captain._ ”

Her arm moves, and Spock barely registers it before Latik grabs a loose panel board and hurls it at Uhura. The heavy metal plate catches the lieutenant in the chest and she cries out, staggering back and slamming right into Spock. They tumble to the ground as the shot from her phaser goes wide, and Spock barely has time to catch a full breath before he hears the pounding of Latik’s footsteps an instant before Uhura is hauled bodily off him as easily as a small child.

A crash and a cry of pain as Latik throws Uhura into the terminal, smashing her against the metal, and Spock starts to struggle to his feet but all of a sudden Latik is on him, pressing his body into the metal floor below as iron-firm fingers wrap around his throat. Spock grits his teeth and tries to throw her off, calling on his Vulcan strength but Latik has him pinned and he cannot move her, his body exhausted and failing after a week of grief and deprivation.

Above him, Latik’s face morphs into an ugly smile, the hatred in her eyes so strong Spock feels burned by her gaze. “This is Starfleet’s best?” she sneers, tightening her fingers and Spock gasps for air that is no longer there, black spots slowly beginning to gather at the corners of his vision. “This is all the Federation has to offer? A scrawny lieutenant and the half-breed abomination.”

Everything is going now, the black all but obscuring Spock’s vision. He feels suddenly exhausted, unbearably so, such that he barely registers the sound of running footsteps, or the new voice that says, “No.”

Something lights up in Spock’s brain, fuzzy as everything is. That voice—it is—

“They’ve also got me.”

The whine of a phaser shot, and Latik slams back with a cry as the blue bolt catches her in the chest, sending her tumbling out of Spock’s rapidly-fading vision. He barely comprehends it, everything slow and indistinct as if he is inebriated, but even then he still tries to reach out toward that voice, the voice that is…

Someone crouches over him, reaches out to touch fingers to his face. “Spock? Oh, _Jesus_ —Scotty, get Bones down here _right now!_ Spock. Spock, you hang in there, okay? Stay with me, damnit!”

But Spock cannot. All he can do is reach out and whisper, “ _Jim_ ,” before everything fades away.

 

Spock comes awake to the rhythmic beeping and soporific hum of the machines in sickbay. McCoy’s face swims into view almost instantly. “Oh good,” the doctor says, “I was beginning to think you’d never grace us with your sunny presence ever again.”

Spock blinks and reaches up to touch his neck. There is a slight pain, nothing but a dull ache, and before he can ask McCoy says, “Don’t worry, you’ve only got a few bruises left. Your freaky Vulcan healing sleep thing took care of most of the damage.”

He had gone into a healing trance? “How long have I been unconscious, Doctor?”

McCoy takes out his tricorder and runs a quick scan. “Three days,” he answers as he does so, and continues before Spock can interject, “Because apparently some idiot decided he could go a week without food or sleep and somehow still function like a normal human being. Or Vulcan. Or whatever.”

There is no judgment in his voice—McCoy seems to have the unique ability to appear simultaneously gruff and caring—but it does not stop Spock from cutting his eyes away from the other man. That is when he spies the antique Terran book sitting on the empty chair by the bed. He blinks again.

While Spock had been unconscious, McCoy appears to have developed some form of telepathy. “I sent him back to his quarters to get some sleep,” the doctor says, not looking up from where he is making a note in Spock’s chart. “The idiot’s hardly left your side since you went under.”

Spock nods, reaching out and picking the book up. He traces the worn edges of the cover with a finger, imagining he can feel the lingering warmth of Jim’s touch there. It’s a phantom feeling. Spock does not believe in ghosts.

He needs to find Jim.

“Doctor…”

Next to the bed, McCoy rolls his eyes and hands Spock a hypo. “No, I don’t want you leaving sickbay. Yes, I know you’re going to anyway. So yes, you can have a painkiller before you go, no, you are not cleared for active duty, and yes, Jim is probably still awake right now.”

…He will definitely need to double-check McCoy’s personnel file. Spock nods and slides off the biobed. Clutching the book to his chest, he turns to McCoy and finds he suddenly does not know what to say. In the end, he settles for a simple “Thank you, Doctor.”

McCoy’s eyes soften for just a moment before he turns and gives Spock a dismissive wave. “Whatever. Now stop taking up space in my sickbay and get the hell out.”

Spock does.

The halls of the _Enterprise_ are quiet as he makes his way toward the officers’ quarters. It is in the early hours of ship’s morning, and most of the crew are asleep. Spock finds himself thankful for the peace, as it allows him some space to get his roiling thoughts under control. He is largely unsuccessful, but it only takes three tries for him to finally press the button requesting entry to Jim’s quarters, so he considers it a win.

“Come in,” calls the voice, warm and familiar. Spock tells himself the sudden tightness in his throat is due to Latik’s attack and not his own tumultuous emotions as the door slides open and he steps into the room.

The captain—Jim, alive and whole and _Jim_ —looks up from his padd and his face immediately breaks out into a smile. Something tightens in Spock’s chest and he swears the entire room grows brighter.

“Spock!” Jim cries, and the name comes out edged with joy and not a bit of relief. Spock swallows and can think of nothing to say around the sudden lump in his throat as Jim rounds the desk and strides toward him, arms out and is he going to—

Jim stops as if he has hit a brick wall when Spock thrusts the book forward into the space between them. “Uh.” He lowers his arms, looks at the book, and finally takes it before motioning to an empty chair. “Thanks. Have a seat.”

Spock obeys, hardly registering his body’s movements as he stares at Jim. The captain is dressed for bed in a plain T-shirt and worn sleeping pants, and he must have just finished showering because his hair has that loose, slightly mussed quality Spock has only noticed after a recent bout beneath the sonics. He appears healthy, skin its normal tan and blue eyes sharp and focused as they return his gaze, as if he did not just die a week ago, as if he did not just bring Spock’s entire world crashing down for the second time in his life.

Jim walks around the desk to sink back into his chair. He sets the book on the flat metal surface before folding his hands and looking at Spock. He makes no move to speak, and neither does Spock. Somehow, Spock feels words are an inadequate form of communication between them now.

The silence stretches for a moment longer, but Jim eventually shifts, gaze darting away and back before he coughs and says, “So how are you feeling? You were out for a while, I was really starting to worr—uh. Spock?”

But Spock does not withdraw his hand, continuing to trace the fading yellow bruise beneath Jim’s left eye. “You are injured,” he says.

“Oh.” It could be Spock’s imagination, but it seems Jim leans just slightly into his touch. “Yeah. It’s no big deal.”

“Latik?” Spock asks, as the rage bubbles just beneath his skin.

But Jim shakes his head. “Sulu,” he answers, sheepish, then chuckles, the movement allowing Spock more contact with his warm, dry skin. “I guess I deserved it, after what I put you guys through. Just glad he didn’t have his sword at the time.”

“I see.” Spock knows he should probably withdraw his hand, but he finds he cannot, wanting all of a sudden to map the entirety of his captain’s body with his fingers, if only to make sure Jim is really here, that Spock has not lost him. “Jim…”

Jim sighs. He makes no move to pull back from Spock, but his eyes have darkened with sad resignation. “I owe you an explanation, don’t I?”

Spock doesn’t answer. Jim nods and gets up from the desk, and Spock is half out of his chair to follow him before his brain even fully registers the movement. Chastising himself—he should have better control than this—he forces his body back into the seat. If Jim noticed the aborted movement, he doesn’t say anything, picking the book up off the table and crossing the room in three broad strides.

“The investigation into those Klingon transmissions was going nowhere,” he says, sliding the book back into its place on his shelf. “There were no discernible patterns to the transmissions; we couldn’t predict when the next one would happen or where it would be. And with almost a thousand people on board, narrowing down the suspect list was just taking too long. We had to take measures.”

He sighs and traces the spines of the books. “I admit it wasn’t my best plan,” he says. “Who _likes_ to fake his own death in front of a crew of the best people he knows? But it was the quickest way to locate the mole. We knew Latik wouldn’t be able to resist broadcasting the news.”

Spock tightens his fingers on the armrest; the metal groans beneath his touch. “So you were never on the smugglers’ ship,” he says.

“Nope.” Jim finally turns to face him, leaning back against the bookshelf and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “The whole thing was a setup. Scotty beamed me from the transporter room straight into Bones’s office. When you guys saw me on the ship, that was a subroutine we programmed and inserted into Chekov’s console. Then all Scotty and Uhura had to do was pretend to freak out while I ‘died’.”

“Lieutenant Uhura was privy to your plan as well?”

Jim shrugs. “Well, yeah, she kinda had to be, since she was heading up the investigation and everything,” he answers.

“Who else knew of the truth?”

Jim shakes his head. “Besides Scotty and Uhura? Just Bones. I did just spend the entire last week hiding in his office, after all. Due to confidentiality reasons, it’s the only part of the ship that can’t be pinged by the computer for a location trace.”

Spock takes a breath and looks away. “I see.”

Jim bites his lip. “I really wanted to tell you,” he says, voice dropping low and apologetic. “I almost did, you know? A few times. But we needed to play things as close to the chest as possible to make sure this worked. Need-to-know basis only. And I figured hey, you’re about the best damned officer I know. If anyone could keep this ship together while I took a stroll on the other side of the veil, it was you. Seeing as, you know…” He coughed. “You did it before.

“But then Uhura just came to see me a few hours ago, after Bones finally released her from sickbay. Called me, among other things,” and here he begins ticking off his fingers, “an asshole, a bastard, an idiot who knows nothing about Vulcan bonds, and, quote, ‘the worst fucking mate in the universe.’ And then when I told her you and I weren’t mates, she tore me a new one.”

He pauses, and his blue eyes seem to burn a hole right to Spock’s soul. “So, Mr. Spock. Care to explain?”

Spock doesn’t, actually. “I believe the lieutenant provided explanation enough.”

Jim frowns. He slowly straightens from the bookshelf and crosses the room to stand in front of Spock. “What do you want, Spock?” he asks, voice soft.

Spock is out of the chair and halfway across the room in his next breath, unable to bear the weight of Jim’s steady gaze. He clenches his fist and tries to sort through the mess of anger and pain that twists his insides like some monstrous beast. He must not succeed because his voice trembles as he says, “I want you to respect my station upon this ship. As First Officer, it is my duty to provide input with regard to your command decisions, and had you informed me of your plan—”

Jim lets out a frustrated breath. “I _told_ you, Spock, it was on a need-to-know basis! And what if someone had asked you about it, huh? Vulcans can’t lie, that’s what you always say—”

“I am _not_ Vulcan,” Spock snaps, spinning on him, and allows himself brief satisfaction when Jim jerks back, surprised. “A true Vulcan would have employed a logical tactic—”

“But the plan _was_ logical—”  
 “ _I don’t care._ ”

Jim blinks, eyes wide. Spock takes a breath but feels no calmness from it. Everything is in turmoil, the emotions boiling beneath his skin, and for the first time in his life, Spock does not wish to keep them contained. What he feels for Jim is too vast, too deep for him to control—he must let it out or risk going insane.

He steps forward, and though Jim does not back up, Spock can tell it is a near thing. “You were dead,” he says, each word hissed out between his teeth. “For the second time in my life, I was forced to watch you die. I was forced to feel the other half of my soul ripped from me in one terrible moment, a darkness I’ve not felt since Vulcan’s destruction.

“The first time, my anger had a target. I wanted to kill Khan— _would_ have killed him, had Nyota not stopped me. But this time, there was nothing. This time, my anger stayed like a poison in my body, and all I could think of was that you were gone. There was no one to blame, no one to kill to avenge you. There was only the emptiness, so vast and painful I could barely even _breathe_. No amount of logic can ease such a loss. You _left_ me, Jim, to continue living a life I was never meant to live alone, and I will not allow it. You are my _mate_. I did not realize it before, but I know it now, and I will never again allow you to leave me. _Never_ , Jim. Do you understand?”

He is breathing hard, the sudden tide of emotions leaving him shaken and exhausted. But Spock does not look away from Jim. He needs Jim to understand this, needs him to know just how much he means to Spock, how Spock looks at him now and knows in his bones, his very being, that he will fight and kill and bleed to remain by Jim’s side.

Spock has lost his mate twice now, and he knows he will not survive a third time.

The silence continues for another moment. Jim watches him, and for the first time Spock finds he cannot read his captain’s expression. He looks somewhere halfway between wary and resigned, and Spock ventures another step forward. “Jim?”

Then Jim sighs, and his face melts into a smile, slightly lopsided but genuine. “We have got to do something about these love letters,” he mutters, and before Spock can respond Jim grabs him by his shirt and pulls him in for a kiss.

The universe does not explode, but it is a close thing. Warmth bursts forth in Spock’s body as he responds immediately, marveling in the closeness of the younger man’s body, the too-dry lips pressed to his own. His mind sings at the contact, a melody of completion, and if Spock had any doubts before about Jim being his mate, they are gone now. He will never let Jim go after this. They are bonded by more than love.

It seems an eternity before they finally break apart, although it cannot be more than a few moments. Jim presses their foreheads together, lips bare centimeters apart, and whispers, breathless, “Damn. I need to die more often.”

“I would prefer you kept such scenarios to a minimum,” Spock answers, and soaks up the soft huff of Jim’s laughter like water after months in the desert.

“Yeah, I think I can manage that.” Jim smiles, bringing up a hand to caress Spock’s cheek. “So what now, Commander?”

Spock hums, pushing into the touch as Jim’s fingers travel upward to trace the taper of his ear. “As your First Officer, it is my duty to remind you that the paperwork regarding Latik’s betrayal will need to be completed and transmitted to Command within the requisite seventy-two hours. Command should also be informed of the existence of the cloaking device, especially in light of deteriorating Federation-Klingon relations. Furthermore, your reintegration into command will have to be thoroughly planned, in order to avoid further incidents similar to that which occurred with Mr. Sulu.”

“Mm-hm.” Jim grins when Spock lets out a shaky breath as the captain’s fingers continue to stroke his ear. “But…?”

“But,” Spock continues, reaching down to grasp Jim’s other hand and intertwine their fingers, “I believe we both have other, more pressing duties at this time. Duties that are far more…personal in nature.”

Jim chuckles. “See?” he whispers, breaths warm over Spock’s bare skin. “I am rubbing off on you.”

And as he once again closes the distance between them, Spock cannot help but agree. And he finds he does not mind in the least.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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